


A Cynic, Two Colors, and Death

by DeathLikesPizza



Category: Book Thief - Markus Zusak, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, M/M, and when i say book i mean les mis, possible book inaccuracies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathLikesPizza/pseuds/DeathLikesPizza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took three colors to tell the story of the Book Thief.<br/>It only takes two colors this time.<br/>Red and black.<br/>The two times Death encountered Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So I wanted to write an e/R fic for a while now, and recently I've wanted to write a fic with Death (from The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. Go read it, it's great.) narrating it. So this happened.

I told you that I try to see the colors first.  Then I gave you you three colors to start the story.  White, black, and red.

 

  
*****FOR THOSE WHO MISSED IT*****  

**With three colors, I told the story of the Book Thief.**

I just need two this time.  Red and black.

Black comes first.  It's deep and absolute.  The color surrounds the city and gobbles up the buildings, until the very streets are unrecognizable.  The night is cold and a small boy shivers against the blackness.  He's looking down at an older boy's body.  The older boy's name is Michel, and I held his soul in my arms.  Michel's only regret was leaving his brother and sister on their own.  There's a little girl hanging on the small boy's pants.            

 

*****THE SMALL BOY*****

**He'll become a cynic with some rather self-destructive tendencies and - ironically - an unbreakable faith.  He'll be important, so pay attention.**     

I only saw him twice, but it wasn't long in between. Our cynic was on this little planet for only 27 years.

You might sigh.   _What a waste.  So very young._

His friends died younger than him

 I was rather busy that day they all died, so much so that the small alleyway ran red with blood.  

That brings us to the second color.  Red.  It's a color that can be thought of as a beginning - like sunrise.  But in this case, it only signifies an end. 

 

*****A NOTE ON THE COLOR RED*****

**There was a red flag that hung out the window.  It was still being held by a dead boy when the dawn came.**

By the end of this story, the cynic and most of the others in this story will be dead.  I don't want you to be shocked when it happens.

I held each soul in my hands.  I tried to look only at the colors.  Needless to say, I failed in that task.     

The deaths in this will not be heroic.  Many would say they were in vain.  Perhaps they were.  There will be ugly deaths and deaths that come quietly, like a little fall of rain, and there will be deaths of people far too young for me to claim them.   

But if you are willing, I will tell you the story of a cynic who believed.  I will tell you the story of Grantaire.


	2. Black: the dark of ages past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a while and I'm sorry. rl got in the way. It's pretty short this time too, but there'll be more coming eventually. And more than just two chapters. Sorry for my French if I messed up anywhere, although I think I got it mostly right. Enjoy!

First, black.  A void in the fabric the world, a gap through which peered oblivion. It's one of my favorite blacks in my whole, long career.  

"Grantaire!" the little girl tugged on the small boy's trousers.  

"Shh, Adele," the boy - Grantaire said.  He was thin and lanky, still growing and his clothes were too small.  His hair was a riot of dark curls. 

He looked at the building behind him.  It was a  tavern, smokey and loud.  And full of people, which was the important part.  

Adele was pretty, in a dirty sort of way.  Her hair was dark like her brother's, but her hair was richer and straight.  She had what seems to be ever-present grime on her features.  

"Grantaire, where's Michel?" His sister tried again.

"Adele, I told you to shut up, right?" Grantaire glared at her.  "So shut up."

He squinted through the smoke surrounding the tavern.  He needed money, now that Michel was dead.  Some sort bet perhaps?  A game of cards or a drinking game.  He was only twelve, but he had drunk enough with Michel and his friends to hold his liquor.   

Adele kicked him in the shin.  She always did have spirit.  

 

 

*****SOME FACTS ABOUT ADELE*****

**She lived until she was 38 years old.**

**She worked as a prostitute from when she was 19 years old to her death.**

**She had one child.  A boy named Grantaire.**

"Fuck!" Grantaire cursed.

He contemplated her for a moment.

His face softened.  She was only four.  He couldn't tell her the truth, could he?  He would later, when she was older.  When she could handle it.  

"Christ, Adele, calm down.  Michel's sleeping.  Go to  _Maman_  and stay with her tonight. I'll see if I can get you some breakfast for tomorrow.   _Comprends-tu?_ "

" _Oui,_  Grantaire.  I understand," She replied before running off, presumably to their mother.  

Grantaire sighed.  He looked down at his brother.  

Michel's lips were the blue of a clear sky in summer and his skin the white of ivory.  His knife wound had bled, soaking into his shirt and jacket.  They were a brilliant red.  

Grantaire snorted.  His brother's dead body formed the Tricolor.

So much for the Revolution. 

It had promised them equality.  

"Well, here's your equality," Grantaire whispered.  His breath froze in the night air and his newly-found cynicism.  "My dead brother."

A pause, and a cold tear that trickled down a pale cheek.  

"Is this what you wanted, you fucking bastards?!" he shouted into night.  "Is this the price for your precious freedom?! Well, you can suck my-"

Grantaire stopped.

"Such a funny joke, I'm sure," he whispered.  It was said softly, no malice. But with a hidden edge, like a razor wrapped in silk.

He seemed intent with mocking his imaginary audience.  

 

 

*** **THE IMAGINARY AUDIENCE OF GRANTAIRE*****

**Perhaps it included the king, or Robespierre or Napoleon.  Perhaps Grantaire was yelling at God.**

Grantaire sighed and looked down at the Michel's body.  "This would be be better if I wasn't talking to myself like a crazy person."

I have to agree.  It would look better that way.  

Grantaire slid to the ground.  He was a puppet who's strings had been cut.  He was dropped unceremoniously in a heap, like a piece of trash. 

"Vive la France," He murmured through frozen lips.  

Then he laughed.  

 

 

*****THE COLOR WHEN I HELD MICHEL'S SOUL*****

**It was black.  Cold and without stars or moonlight.  It was an empty abyss, a hole of despair and hopelessness.**

  
**Grantaire fell in that**   **night.**  

He made his way to the tavern.  

It was called Le Lys Ivre, and it was owned by a man named Guillaume. He would die spitting up blood in seven years.  But he had a while then.  I would get to him in due course.  

Grantaire entered Le Lys Ivre with a swagger of an overly confident twelve year old and shaking hands.  

He marched up to the bar and smiled.  It was the grin of a condemned man. "A bottle of absinthe, please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Le Lys Ivre means The Drunk Lily. I decided to have fun with the names.


	3. Interlude: A very long author's note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An extremely long note from the author about something that needs to be said.

Hi guys.  This is the authour speaking, not Death.  

Unfortunately.

This is sort of what this is about.  I am (sadly) announcing that this story is going on hiatus.  

It's a combination of a lot of things.  My real life is kind of busy and I'm just in a state where I'm not mananging my time well (among other things).  But mostly it's because I have little to no inspiration and my only motivation is my guilt.  

THIS IS NOT A GOOD COMBINATION.  

It's a) not fun for me and b) it really isn't good for the story - in the "if I tried writitng it and got stuff out it wouldn't be good quality stuff" kind of way.  

There is a reason I generally stick to one-shots and don't post unfinished stories.  

Anyway, I have a vague idea on what I wanted to do with this story (it involved telling a lot more of Grantaire's past then the two times he met Death.  Sort of like in The Book Thief.  You get to read about Liesel's life in between the times she encounters Death too.)  I could, of course, just do R's death scene and wrap it up, but ...

I don't know.  It feels like I'm rushing it and in the process, ruining it.

If anyone wants to ask about what I had planned, wants some drabbles from this verse, wants to bounce ideas off/beta-y stuff, or anything like that, I'm completely open to that.  I will welcome you.  You can send me an ask (or submit) to my blog on tumblr. (I'm at pylades-put-that-bottle-down.tumblr.com)

I'm really sorry about this.  I may get back to this verse or just post drabbles (maybe others of les amis?), but probably not anytime soon.  

Thank you all so  _so_ much, _  
_

DeathLikesPizza

**Author's Note:**

> This is very short, but there will be more. Also I'm on Tumblr as pyladesisdrunk.tumblr.com


End file.
